They clambered onto the driver’s bench, forcing the milkman to its edge. Snatching the reins, shouting “Hyah!” Devon sent the horses into a gallop. The wagon juddered wildly, and bottles rattled against each other in their crates.
“Stop!” the milkman wailed, clinging desperately to the bench. “You’ll spill the milk!”
Devon flashed a sidelong grin at Beth. “Shall I tell him not to cry over it? Or shall I butter him up instead?”
She clicked her tongue with exasperation. “It’s bad enough you keep hijacking people, do you have to add the crime of cheesy jokes?”
She heard the pun a moment after she said it and winced. The man was corrupting her even at the subconscious level!
Devon laughed. “You are the cream of the crop, Miss Pickering,” he said. And it was like he’d kissed her again—the warmth, the tingles, making her blush like a fool.
“Oh God, please stop!” the milkman begged. “Hijack me if you must, but no more bad puns!”
“Sorry!” they said in unison. And Beth lowered her face to hide a smile as the wagon carried them into the sunlit wind.
—
“So this is goodbye.”
She stared at the train ticket in her hand. It had taken almost all her money, but that was fine, she would visit a bank the moment she arrived in London. And then she would buy new clothes, new shoes, perhaps a new field guide while she was at it, something scholarly—
“Miss Pickering,” Devon said for the second time, and she drew a deep breath before raising her head to smile at him pleasantly. He smiled back, of course he did, all heedless flair and confidence, entirely untroubled by their parting.
Her heart drooped. She did not like this man, nor respect him, nor feel any ache at the thought she’d never again talk with him about birds, or kiss him in a tiny, secret room while a storm raged outside.
But oh, what a ruthless liar she was to herself.
“The train is still fifteen minutes away,” he said. “Perhaps we could wait for it together? Solely for practical reasons, you understand—in case our pursuers turn up?”
“Yes,” she said almost before he finished speaking. Then realizing how daft she was, she flushed and turned away. But Devon turned with her, his arm brushing hers in a devastatingly casual manner.
“Hmm,” he said. “Where can we sit?”
Beth considered the matter calmly, as if the thought of sitting with him was not akin to the memory of dancing with him by candlelight. The station comprised two platforms, dissected by train tracks and overarched by a cavernous roof. The southbound one was empty, the advertisements pasted to its wall fluttering a little in a warm, dusty breeze. But the northbound one, on which they stood, bustled with passengers heading for London. Beth sighted Monsieur Chevrolet and Miss Eliza Wolfe, the former seated at a wrought-iron table dressed with lace cloths and a tiny vase of flowers, the latter perched daintily on a travel trunk beneath a parasol held aloft by a footman. They were casting disdainfully murderous looks at each other while their servants brought them tea, arranged their luggage, and in Monsieur Chevrolet’s case, performed an emergency manicure. Beth tried to determine how she might traverse the platform without being noticed herself.
Devon laid his hand on her back. “Why don’t we find somewhere private—?”
“Aaaahhhhhhh!!!”
It took Beth a second to realize the scream hadn’t come from her, primarily due to its being not excited but terrified. Devon instantly moved to shield her, which was
And came within a wingspan of dying as a deadly frostbird swooped down, a sinuous blur of long white feathers and silvery flares, trailing icy sparks that scorched the morning with a promise of carnage.
Chapter Eleven
Ornithologist is another word for hero.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
The frostbird’s scientific binomial was Ardea ignis, due to its thaumaturgic emanations being cold enough to burn instantly through muscle and bone, although in Greenlandic it was more colloquially known as—
“Run!”
Devon’s voice broke through Beth’s thoughts in the same moment he began pushing her toward the station’s waiting room. All around them, mayhem reigned. Larger than its cousin, the Kievan firebird, and far more dangerous, the frostbird darted above the panicked crowd, breathing gusts of high-pressure air. Luggage exploded in great bursts of blue-white ice. People shoved and bashed at each other, desperately trying to reach shelter. Just in front of Beth and Devon, a woman fell to her knees, and they stopped to help her up.
“Please,” she cried, clutching at them. “My Louis—I can’t find my Louis!”
Beth’s pulse skipped. “What does he look like? How old is he?”
“Not even two years old!” the woman sobbed. “Green and gold, with—”
“I’m sorry, what?” Beth interrupted confusedly.
“You mean his clothes?” Devon said.
Now the woman was confused. “I mean my suitcase. My Louis Vuitton suitcase. It’s worth a fortune!”
Beth gritted her teeth. Devon’s face looked pained. They propelled the woman toward the waiting room, then dashed to crouch behind an overstacked luggage trolley. Their bodies pressed together in the limited space, but Beth had no time for tingling.
“Frostbirds aren’t normally aggressive,” she said. “It’s not attacking out of malice; it’s frightened. Which means we’ll never get it to land.”
“Agreed,” Devon said. “And the train arriving might scare it away into the city.”
The thought of that disaster darkened their shared glance. Beth opened her satchel, rummaging through its contents, while Devon peered around the trolley, tracking the frostbird as it spiraled toward the apex of the station’s roof.
“Fascinating,” he said mildly, then turned back to her. At the sight of the object she held up, his expression blanked. “What is that?”
